


Grace and Gratitude

by MDJensen



Series: Honest Songs/Distillery 'verse [5]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aramis needs a little talking to, Gen, don't we all sometimes?, just some Sunday snuggles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-06-01 07:31:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6508645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sunday morning at the distillery: a thank you to all of you who replied to my post yesterday <3</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grace and Gratitude

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to take a moment to sincerely thank all of you who replied with lovely words of support to the note I posted yesterday, about depression and the struggle to write while on Prozac.
> 
> Alyslee, Mysti112, Sigmund, DebbieF, FierGascon, Snow_Glory, Ebm36, Khentkawes, Kate, Buckeye01, Asha, Richefic, the_other_sandy, ponygirl, Clara, gecko10, Thimblerig, Rhesascoffee, and SarieVenea, as well as anyone who happens to comment in the future, truly, thank you. Your encouragement meant worlds to me. I was actually kind of flabbergasted at how many of you took the time to write such long and thoughtful replies. I fully intend to reply to all of you individually but before that, wanted to offer this up as a collective gift of gratitude to you all.
> 
> I credit you all with my ability to write this, because by writing this today I have written more, and more easily, than any day in recent memory. I’ll let Aramis say what I can’t quite put into words for myself. I hope you enjoy, and look for my individual replies within the next few days!

It was spring, finally-- albeit a bit timidly-- and the late-morning air felt clean and cool as they guided their horses back from church. Green fields that soon would be purple with lavender surrounded them on all sides. Then, before too long, the familiar sight of the distillery came into view, and swelled until they were at once within its borders.

D’Artagnan guided Nuage up beside the wooden stairs he’d built in the pen, and climbed down. He left Porthos to dismount as he pleased, and soon all of them were on the ground, slightly spongey with recent rain, guiding the horses back towards their enclosure.

Athos fed Miel-- who luckily had grown, and could bear her adult rider easily-- a carrot from the recent harvest. (Though this had been the last crop of carrots, for the weather was warming, and all were looking forward to the spring and summer fruits and vegetables that d’Artagnan would grow now.)

Porthos and d’Artagnan bid farewell to Nuage with fond pats. But as they turned to leave, they realized, along with Athos, that Aramis seemed planted quite firmly at Brandy’s side, with his face in her auburn mane and no discernable intentions of moving.

It was Athos who went to him first, placed a questioning hand on his shoulder. Then, as d’Artagnan and Porthos drew nearer, Aramis lifted his head, baring a little shyly the tears in his warm black eyes.

“Hey now,” Porthos murmured. “What’s all this?”

Aramis sniffled. “I’m all right.”

“Aramis--”

“No, really. You all just go on ahead; I’ll be along in a minute.”

Porthos did not take to this at all, and rather than leave Aramis there instead reached down, grabbed Aramis round the thighs, and hauled him over his shoulder like a sack of wheat. Aramis’ legs dangled against Porthos’ belly, hands gripping the back of Porthos’ shirt. A futile moan escaped him as Porthos trotted resolutely out of the horse pen, up the hill that overlooked the orchard, Aramis along for the ride with his rear end primly in the air.

The ground was drying slowly beneath the shining sun. Aramis’ hair, almost fully silver now, glinted brightly, an unexpected contrast to the childish way in which he was being carried. Athos and d’Artagnan caught up to them just as Porthos reached the top of the hill. A little gracelessly, he flopped to the ground, using the momentum of the fall to drag Aramis down into his lap.

Aramis surfaced, scowling. “Now my stomach’s upset,” he huffed, curling one hand into a fist to scrub the tears from his face. Athos and d’Artagnan settled calmly beside them. It could never be said that Aramis was not an emotional man, but he was not a weepy one, and moments of true vulnerability were typically for Porthos’ eyes alone. Athos took Aramis’ hand, and d’Artagnan began to rub his back.

“I really am all right, though,” Aramis protested, as Porthos leaned forward to press a kiss to the edge of his lips.

“’m not disbelievin’,” Porthos soothed. “Just waitin’ for a li’l more than that.”

Aramis wrapped his fingers around Athos’ own and began to rub absently at his stubby nails. “I suppose it was just the sermon-- where’s d’Artagnan? I can’t see you, put your arm around me-- and, well. It was such a lovely message, wasn’t it? The Lord’s grace and the man’s gratitude. And it’s just made me think about how-- grateful I am. How truly, truly grateful.”

He sighed, blinked new tears from his eyes. “Do you ever think of how _easily_ one of us might not have made it this far? It makes me sick to even think of it. We’ve been through _so much_ , my friends, and we’ve watched so many fall-- that we should all be here, together, in the end, it’s-- it’s just--”

He coughed a little before he could go on.

“I’m grateful. I don’t give enough thought to my gratitude-- don’t give enough thanks.”

Athos reached forward, brushed a stray tear from Aramis’ cheek. In the year since he’d become Athos once again, even Aramis’ most joyful of moments had seemed tinged with grief, colored by the absence of his son. They waited for this to surface now-- but that wasn't what followed.

“This is a funny-looking gratitude.”

D’Artagnan chose that moment to lay his head on Aramis’ shoulder; Aramis glanced at him from the corner of his eye, smiled, and squeezed Athos’ hand tighter. Porthos regarded him curiously.

“It’s only-- all of this-- I--”

“Mm?”

“I don’t--”

“ _Aramis_ ,” d’Artagnan admonished, knowing what was coming.

“ _I don’t deserve it_ ,” Aramis blurted. With no further warning he gave a loud and rather nasty sob, then blushed deeply and turned his face against Porthos’ shirtfront. Porthos, Athos, and d’Artagnan glanced quickly amongst themselves. Then they fell in as one, surrounding Aramis on all sides, Porthos pressing him close to his chest while d’Artagnan hugged him from behind. Athos stroked gently through his hair.

It took a moment, but eventually Aramis peeked up, face still a little red, eyes still shining wetly. “Sorry,” he whispered, earning him a kiss on the brow. “No, I don’t mean to-- I didn’t mean to get upset, I just-- when you think of all I’ve done-- I’ve done some terrible things, my friends. You know I have. I’ve caused so much pain. I’ve hurt so many people-- I nearly brought down a whole nation!”

He chuckled, glancing down at himself. “Not that you could tell that now.”

Porthos fumbled in his pocket for a hanky, gave up, and dabbed Aramis’ eyes with his sleeve. D’Artagnan offered his own hanky a split second too late.

“Now, see,” Porthos began, “I’ve got a lotta problems with that. But I’m gonna tell you about the one that’ll make the most sense to you, that you won’t just get all huffy at. Yeah? Aramis, we’ve _all_ done things we ain’t proud of--”

Aramis, predictably, huffed. “Have you ever even squashed a spider, _mi amor_?”

“So don’t take it from Porthos,” d’Artagnan cut in. “Take it from me. I was a captain, Aramis, at wartime.”

“Doing your duty.”

“With nobody else to take the blame for any poor decisions that I made,” d’Artagnan corrected patiently. “And it isn’t only that. I didn’t treat Constance as well as I should have. Didn’t treat her like an equal. And I lost her to that.”

Aramis blinked, but said nothing.

A short silence stretched before Athos spoke. “If you won’t take it from them,” he said, quietly, “then take it from me, _mm_? Aramis, you know the things I’ve done. Would you ever look at me and tell me that I don’t deserve to be here? Or deserve to be happy?”

“Never!”

“Then how can you expect us to think that of you? We don’t ask you to be perfect. Neither does God. Look at me. Tell me that I don’t deserve a happy ending. If you can say that to me, that’s the only way you’re allowed to say it to yourself.”

Aramis considered this a long moment-- then wilted once more against Porthos, as though the realization of this were too heavy for his body to bear.

D’Artagnan laughed. “Stumped ‘im. Good job, Ath.”

“Innit kinda the opposite of gratitude, actually?” Porthos mused, hugging Aramis close. “Thinkin’ you don’t deserve somethin’, I mean? It’s like sayin’, _you’re nice for thinkin’ of me but you’re also kind of an idiot_. Do you wanna call the Lord Almighty an idiot?”

Aramis snorted loudly. “No. Not especially.” He rubbed his eyes dry, one last time, and then gave an unexpected yawn.

“You should nap,” d’Artagnan advised. “Porthos always does after Mass.”

“I was going to--”

“Pray?” Athos suggested. “After you just spent _two hours_ praying?”

“I’m just--”

“Grateful?” Porthos finished. “We’ve heard. An’ I think it would be a damn fine show of that gratitude to curl up cozy in bed and dream about it all.”

“Fine,” Aramis grouched, though he hid a smile in Porthos’ chest. Porthos hugged him a moment longer, then as one the four of them climbed to their feet and headed towards the main house.

“I think I’ll nap too,” d’Artagnan declared. “If we’re setting a trend.”

All eyes turned on Athos, who shrugged mildly.

“I’m-- not tired?”

“Then you can see to supper,” Porthos replied. “Somethin’ with apples-- we’ve gotta use up the last of ‘em.”

“Stewed apples?”

“That’s creative,” d’Artagnan teased. Then: “should he pick you up again, Aramis?” For Aramis was lagging a little behind.

But he caught up in two swift steps. “I’ll pass. Still a little queasy. Just so you know, Porthos-- you aren’t a smooth ride.”

Porthos shrugged.

They reached the door of the kitchen; light spilled through the glass of the windows, and inside was nearly as bright as out. Aramis stifled another yawn, and d’Artagnan slapped his back firmly.

“Home sweet home, eh? Get some rest, my friend.”


End file.
